For Those in Peril on the Sea
by CoffeeGirl13
Summary: Ellen Whitehouse, niece of the famous Thomas Andrews, has been waiting years for Titanic's maiden voyage, but will she find love on board the unsinkable ship or will she be just another victim of the tragedy?
1. Class Assignment

**A/N: Alright, like I said in the original, I'm really messing with history here so I'm sorry. Anyway to all those who are reading this after reading the original first chapter, I hope you like this better. If you don't, just tell me and I'll consider changing it back. Just so you know, this won't change where the story was going originally…o you didn't get to see where the story was going did you? Well anyway I hope you enjoy, I'm just about to make revisions on Chapter two so I post it! Happy reading!**

**CoffeeGirl13**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the characters I made up…James Cameron owns all that is in the movie and as far as historical people go…well…I guess God owns themI have never wanted to be Cameron more than at this moment…and trust me, _that_ is saying a lot…**

**For Those in Peril on the Sea**

**Chapter 1: Class Assignment**

Butterflies filled Emily Jamison's stomach so full that she feared at any moment it might burst. Her nerves were getting the best of her, tying her tongue before she even began to talk. Public speaking was _not _her thing. Everyone else had to do the same as she would but she doubted any of them had been as nervous. She was practically shaking. Normally it was her policy to go first, get the ordeal out of the way and all that, but today was different. She had discussed it with Ms. O'Kelly and her teacher had agreed that the best placement for her would be last. After listening to what Emily was about to tell the class, she had rescheduled her lesson plans for as long as it took. It was a lengthy essay.

The assignment had been a personal narrative. All students were supposed to find a relative who interested them and proceed to ask that individual questions about their life. What Emily had learned _changed_ her and she thought everyone else deserved to hear it too.

Finally, Renée McQueen concluded her report and took a seat. She was the last of them.

"Emily," her teacher called to the back row. The high school student looked up, "Are you ready?"

"I think so," she told her instructor in an already shaky voice.

"Do you have your visuals with you?" The green-eyed, brunette girl nodded. "Now class, Emily's memoir is a little different than most. It'll take us a few days to get through."

"You have _got _to be kidding me?" a blonde boy in the front scoffed.

"Even you might enjoy this, Will," the young teacher moved her slim figure out from behind the podium, allowing Emily to take her place.

"Do you want me to, um, show my visuals first and then explain or…?" the shy young girl trailed off.

"That'll work."

"Ok," she said taking a deep and shaky breath, "um, first I have a portrait of my great-great-grandmother, Ellen Whitehouse." Slender fingers unrolled a thick scroll of yellowed canvas to reveal a girl, no older than twenty, looking at what was, presumably, the artist, with a neutral expression on her face. Chocolate tresses were intricately weaved to the top of her head loosely, letting wavy locks frame the rest of her face. Their color contrasted with fashionably pale skin but matched the rich shade of her eyes and she wore a white and lacy dress that was obviously of the higher class. The only _real_ color in the entire picture was the small bouquet of flowers pinned among the shining curls of her hair. Ellen's plump lips, small nose and high cheekbones made her look extraordinarily like Emily. There was no doubting the relation. Emily rolled the portrait back up carefully, after everyone had gotten a good look, and began to move along.

"Uh, before I can, um, show the next picture I kind of need to explain it," If she didn't grow accustomed to the staring eyes of her classmates soon she'd have to live with this electricity in her stomach for quite some time. "Has any one ever read, um, Titanic, by Brock Lovett and Rose Calvert or watched the movie?" The entire class raised their hand, though many male eyes were rolled. "Well, then you know that it's a, a true story?" They nodded.

"I hate it," Will spoke up. "So frickin' cheesy." Emily chose to ignore him

"And every one probably remembers Jack and how he's an artist. Well my grandma Ellen was actually _on _the _Titanic _and when Brock Lovett was going through Jack's sketches after Rose's death he found," she reached for the podium and picked up a sheet of copy paper, "this." When she turned it toward the class they were greeted with the now familiar, if not a bit sketchy, face of Ellen Whitehouse. No, she was different here. The corners of her lips were turned up slightly, not quite in a smile just a look of contentment, and her hair was now down and blowing in the wind as she looked out toward open ocean. Actually the sea wasn't visible in the portrait but, since Ellen was leaned over the railing a little, her eyes' resting place was to be assumed. And then there was her hat. Thick, black cloth with a small plastic bill and insignia patch

"What's the sign on her hat mean?" asked Libby, a pretty, brunette girl in the middle of the room.

"The hat was actually given out to White Star Line officers with their uniform."

She was slowly loosing the attention of most of the class. Most of her peers couldn't care less about what Emily said especially when it was related to history. Anything before what they were experiencing now was a time they had never seen and would never truly care for.

"I, um," she continued through the low roar of the classroom, "interviewed my great-great-aunt, who was Ellen's daughter." Their talking hadn't stopped yet. Salty teardrops filtered into her eyes, just resting on her bottom lid. As she thought back to her aunt, how she'd told the story with such emotion, she tried to feel the same, to see this story as more than just an assignment but as a life. No, not just a life, but _many_ lives. Slowly her embarrassment dissipated and was replaced by anger. How dare they be so disrespectful of her, of her grandmother? The idea boiled at the bottom of her stomach until she could not contain herself any longer.

"Hey!" she yelled letting all her emotion flow through open lips. The students stared, dumbfounded, back at her, "Now listen up. _I _have a story to tell and you _will _listen to it," she breathed deeply, letting her voice return to its regular soft tone. "As I was saying, I interviewed my great-great-aunt Florence who was Ellen's daughter. Ellen used to tell her this story so many that she has the entire thing memorized almost word-for-word. It was too long for me to write down, so I brought the tape that I recorded her on," Emily slowly slid the device in question into the appropriate slot on her teacher's CD player. With the press of a button, the speakers crackled to life and the old and whispery voice of Florence sputtered into the silence of the classroom.

"Ellen Whitehouse knew everything there was to know about ships…"

**Well review and tell me what you think. Don't hold back…no flames though please! Be watching out for Chapter 2… **


	2. Ellen Whitehouse

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the Ellen…and a DVD of Titanic…but it's copywrited, much to my own displeasure **

**Chapter 2: Ellen Whitehouse**

March 26th, 1912

Ellen Whitehouse knew all there was to know about ships: their physics, mechanics, movements, _every_thing. When it came to boats, she knew more than most captains and engineers combined. She could quickly accredit such knowledge to her love of the ocean but, if she was truly honest with herself, she knew it sprung from her close relationship with history's famous shipbuilder, Thomas Andrews. Ellen was his niece. Well, technically, she was his wife's niece but their families had been friends for quite some time and he had always treated her as his daughter. The relationship had grown stronger since her mother had passed away three years ago, leaving the eighteen year old an orphan with only a necklace to remember her by. Ellen's real father had died before she was born and her uncle was the closest thing she'd ever really had to such a relation. She could only hope that would not change when his baby, Elizabeth, grew older. Uncle Andrews, as she called him, had been the one to kindle her passion for all vessels of the sea; she didn't want to lose someone who understood that love so fully.

His current project, the RMS Titanic, stirred her interest beyond words could express. When it was in construction, she wandered the grounds almost daily. In all honesty, it was against regulation to let her do so but Ellen seemed to get whatever she wanted. The twenty-one year old was not spoiled; not by any means. She just had a sort of undeniable charm that she herself did not know she possessed. In fact Ellen Whitehouse did not think there was _any_ aspect about her that anyone, much less members of the opposite sex, found appealing. She had never been gifted with _that_ sort of self-confidence.

Her insecurity could not have been more unfounded for she was one of the prettiest women in all her relations' acquaintance. Ellen's brunette hair, unlike so many of her friends', did not need to be put up in twisted ribbons at night or curled tediously every morning. It just fell in natural waves, accenting the smooth curves of her face.

"Uncle Andrews!" Ellen yelled down to him over the railing of the newly finished stern. The man in question looked up at the not-yet-seafaring vessel toward his niece.

"Ellen," he called back with a smile, "you really shouldn't be up there you know."

"Uncle Andrews you did not tell me you had met the officer's today," she answered, ignoring his comment.

He gave a good-natured chuckle before replying, "I didn't think it would interest you Ellen."

"Of _course_ it will interest me! I _will, _after all, be spending most of my time with them."

"There will be plenty of other passengers Ellen. Why not talk with them?"

"All the first class passengers are so _boring_. They do nothing but spread gossip…and it's not even the good kind. Then I always feel so uncomfortable around the steerage and when in second class I can never decide whether to be bored or awkward. The only truly entertaining people to be with are the officers." Thomas had to laugh at that. If he could say one thing about his niece it was that she wasn't afraid to speak her mind. And most of the time she was dead-on.

"I'll have them introduced to you tomorrow. I met the captain as well you know."

"Oh you _did_? What was he like?"

"His name is Edward Smith. Quite a gentleman. You can meet him tomorrow with the officers if you like."

"I _would_ like that but I _wish_ I could have met them today."

"If you'll come down from there you may just be able to do so. They may not have left yet and I _did_ promise them a quick tour of the ship so they might know their way around it."

"I'll be down as quickly as possible!" He laughed again as she scurried away from the railing.

"Wait down here while I go and see if they've gone yet!" the older man called, hoping she could hear him.

"Yes Uncle Andrews!" he heard her say as he walked toward the exit.

It didn't take him more than a minute to find the crew, explain that he could give them the ship's tour, and guide them back to the shipyard but, even still, Ellen was quicker. Had it been anyone else, they would still be hid away in some or other of the corridors.

"You got down here fast, my dear," Andrews stated as he moved to stand beside her. Assuming the position of her male guardian, he held out a hooked arm for her to loop her own through.

"If there is _any_ shortcut on that ship, Uncle, I know of it."

"Of course, Ellen. How could I have forgotten?"

"I don't know but I must say that you have forgotten something _else_ as well."

"And what is that my dear niece?"

"You have rudely disregarded the gentlemen before you. I have not yet been introduced to even _one_ of them."

"How right you are," Andrews sighed defeatedly, "I'm ashamed for being so careless."

"You could make up for it by introducing me _now_," Ellen told her uncle with a sly smile.

"I believe I'll do just that," finally, he turned his attention back to the crowd of eight before him. "Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce my niece, Miss Ellen Whitehouse." The young girl bowed her head politely. Her uncle slowly introduced the brunette woman to the captain in front of her and all of his officers.

Captain Edward Smith was a tall man, or maybe it was that Ellen herself was short. Either way he looked to be in his early sixties with a full beard and mustache as purely white as the rest of his hair. The officers, however, were much younger, their age ranging from early twenties to late thirties.

Chief Officer Henry Wilde was the oldest of the seven with blue eyes and chestnut colored hair. Along with being the oldest, he was also the tallest, even in comparison to their commander. Next to him in rank and age was first officer William Murdoch. His hair matched that of Henry's but Ellen could see, though they were quite sunken in, that his eyes had a greenish tint that Officer Wilde's lacked.

Charles Lightoller, Herbert Pitman, and Joseph Boxhall (second, third, and forth officer in exactly that order) looked relatively the same, though face shape and build differed for each man. All had blue eyes and brown hair. There were slight variations obviously. Herbert's hair was more blonde and Joseph's eyes more green but overall they were the same. It was Harold Lowe and James Moody, obviously the most junior officers, who really stood out.

Both their eyes were, much like Ellen's, a deep, chocolate brown instead of what seemed to be "regulation blue." Harold's hair was brunette like the others but instead of striking an almost auburn tone, it appeared black, only to be recognized as brown in the correct light. James on the other hand was blonde, a dark blonde, yes, but a blonde nonetheless. All of them, no matter size, height, or hair color, stood at an _almost_ attention with a rather annoying frown. All who ever needed to "stand at attention" seemed to adopt that facial expression without any regard to whether Ellen liked it or not.

"It's very nice to meet you all," she said with a smile after they had been properly introduced, "but I don't believe I've seen so many gloomy faces in all my life. Am truly _that_ horrible to look at?"

"Why of course not Ellen," her uncle reassured her, "you are a very beautiful young woman."

"You _have_ to say that Uncle. We _are_ related, after all."

"On behalf of all of us," the captain finally spoke up with a smirk that broke the tension, "I would have to say that it is impossible for your uncle to lie, on this matter at least."

"You flatter me, Captain."

"His flattery is well founded, Miss Whitehouse," said one officer in a deeply Welsh accent. Officer Lowe, she recalled, was his name. Her face blushed a deep crimson. It was one thing when someone much older complimented her but it was quite another when an individual nearer to her own age did so.

"Why thank you Mr. Lowe," she said finally. She couldn't deny that he was quite handsome himself, but then so were most of the officers. It must have been some sort of requirement.

"Well," her uncle began at last, "how about that tour of the ship?"

"Ah, yes," Lightoller responded, "I'd very much like to get a feel of my surroundings before we set off."

The group finished the walk-through relatively quickly, Thomas guiding them half of the way and Ellen the other half. The men, other than her uncle of course, were quite astounded. She could see it in their faces. Most women of the higher class barely knew their way around their own _home_ but there Miss Whitehouse stood, confidently showing them through the world's largest and most luxurious ship. Their amazement pleased her to no end.

Afterward, all the men clustered together in a sort of huddle to discuss things that needed to be done before Titanic's maiden voyage. Therefore, Ellen was left...alone. She already knew all the particulars of their conversation but being a woman, and only twenty-one years old at that, she couldn't really contribute much to the dialogue. Sighing heavily, her eyes looked up at the great ship.

"I don't think I've ever met a woman who knew quite so much about boats as you do." Ellen's head swiveled around and her chocolate orbs met with the childishly handsome face of Officer Moody. He must have snuck away from the group while the others weren't watching.

"Me either." Officer Lowe obviously did the same. She smiled at him after realizing his presence and shook her head. Slowly she turned away from the pair of them and toward the seafaring vessel with a wistful expression clouding her visage.

"I love this ship," Ellen stated simply. She shook away the dazed expression, along with the feeling it stirred, "I love _all_ ships but so far _this_ one's my favorite."

"You really are quite different from most first class ladies," the fifth officer informed her.

"I take that as a compliment Officer Lowe."

"Harry."

"What?" she asked confused.

"Call me Harry, Miss Whitehouse."

"I'll agree to that as long as you stop that 'Miss Whitehouse' nonsense. My _name_ is Ellen. That goes for you too Mr. Moody."

"If your going to call him Harry, you may as well call me James."

"Very well," she said with a smile

Glancing back toward Harry, she made the mistake of looking directly into those nearly black eyes and now she couldn't seem to look away. _And_ she was blushing…again. Harold Lowe, she quickly noted, seemed to have that effect on her. Moody, completely forgotten, glanced between the two with a smirk. He would have to tell his sister about this in his next letter. 'What an interesting voyage Titanic's will be,' he thought to himself, not realizing the irony of his statement.

**Ok I hope this lived up to any expectations you had…I like it…kind of, but I'm too critical of myself. Anywho, review, review, review! I'll give you an e-cookie…lol**!


	3. Sailing Day

**Disclaimer: I no own Titanic, nothing else to it. I want to own it, I don't, and I'm gonna go cry now. Ignore the sobbing girl in the corner! Alright, Chapter 3! I hope you like it…**

**Chapter 3: Sailing Day**

April 10th, 1912

Thirteen days, that's how long it had been since March 27 when the officers had boarded Titanic. _Fourteen,_ if she included the day she met them. Yes, Ellen _had_ been counting. In addition, she had spent almost every hour of those days with them and their captain. After spending so much time with only one group of people, it was to be assumed that their dynamic was pretty much set in stone. In fact, she felt as though she'd known them for a lifetime instead of just a few prolonged weeks.

Captain Edward Smith had become a sort of third grandfather, spoiling her and complimenting every small achievement she made. It had been unexpected at first but she quickly grew accustomed to it. As long as she wasn't going anywhere that could be potentially dangerous, she had a feeling there was nowhere on the Titanic that she wouldn't be allowed to visit, unlike most passengers. Captain Edward, she noted, didn't seem to have the ability to be _truly_ angry with her.

After him were the officers. Henry Wilde, William Murdock, and Charles Lightoller were like uncles but not in the way she viewed Thomas Andrews. They were older, wiser, but were still ready and willing to tease her if the opportunity was presented. Ellen would pretend to be angry with them for such behavior but, in all honesty, she reveled in it. What a sharp contrast they were to Herbert Pitman and Joseph Boxhall, who seemed to want nothing to do with her. It didn't bother her though; she was quite aware that not everyone was going to like her. And she wasn't too fond of their 'no-nonsense' attitude anyway.

James Moody, on the other hand, was her brother; there was no disputing that. They quarreled like siblings, they discussed like siblings, he protected her like an older brother and she watched out for him like a younger sister. If anyone asked if she loved James Moody the answer would undoubtedly be yes; he was the closest she'd ever come to having a sibling.

And then there was Harry. She couldn't really decide what relation he was most closely akin to. She wouldn't deny that she was attracted to him, and, she feared, maybe more. He was absolutely perfect in her eyes, as passionate about the sea as she was. He was the only one she had ever felt truly and deeply comfortable with, the only one she'd ever told why she wore a diamond angel on a silver chain around her neck. Ellen recalled that moment with perfect clarity.

- - -

March 31st, 1912

_Titanic's trials were to commence on Monday. It was Sunday. In all actuality, the fitting out in question would end up being postponed a day due to high winds, but Ellen didn't know that at the time. All she knew was that it was raining and she loved the rain. While Uncle Andrews, Captain Edward, and all of the officers stood in the first class smoking room discussing the events of the next day, Ellen Whitehouse slipped away. With quick familiarity, the young girl made her way to the bow. _

_She cleared her mind; let all her thoughts run together in the falling rain. Her hands gripped the cold, wet metal of the ship's railing as small beads of water cascaded down her skin. The droplets falling from the sky were soft but thick, drawing intricate patterns on every surface. It was a beautiful melody they created as they fell equally on metal and wood alike, not caring about the difference in strength or price. _

"_You like the rain?" asked a familiar voice from behind her. Harry. She didn't need to turn to know that it was him. She nodded, unable to speak for a brief moment. He was silently examining her; Ellen could feel it. "Why do wear that necklace all the time?" the young officer spoke up finally. The question took her by surprise; she hadn't been expecting him to say _that. _Spinning quickly to face him, Ellen sighed deeply. Vaguely, she registered how very attractive he looked when he was wet. Mentally, she shook the thought. _

"_You don't want to know," the brunette told him with a roll of her eyes. _

"_If I didn't want to know, Ellen, I never would have asked." Much to her displeasure, he made a valid point. _

"_I've never—" she paused nervously, "I've never r-really talked…to anyone…about it." _

_Harry looked at her with interest as though expecting her to continue. Ellen sighed again and looked out away from him. If she was going to tell this story, there was no way she'd be able to do it while looking him directly in the eyes. _

"_About three years ago," she began, "my mother passed away. I-I remember…that she had been sick for a long time and…the physicians, they said they-they couldn't…do _any_thing. She would just lie there and…look so helpless…so pale," her eyes teared at the memory, "and I, I felt so…inadequate, useless. All I could do was stand there and…_watch_ her waste away," she paused, letting her voice strengthen. "One day, she called me into her room just to tell me that she didn't want me to take her necklace. She said…that she wanted me to move on and not dwell in the past. If I owned that piece of jewelry…she thought it would be a constant reminder of her absence. And she didn't…want that for me. Her telling me that though…I _knew_ she was saying goodbye…because she didn't think she'd have another chance. I couldn't stand that thought. I couldn't stand the idea of her not being there. I told her no, I told her she wasn't supposed to say goodbye yet, that she would get better. My mother had always wanted to be apart of this ships maiden voyage and I told her that she _had_ to live at least long enough to join me. But she-she just…shook her head and looked away from me, said she was tired. I got up from that wooden chair and went straight to bed. I hadn't slept in days so as soon as my head hit the pillow, I just died. _

"_The next morning, when I woke up…everything was so dark, so still, so quiet, as though even the floorboards were afraid to squeak…and I just—I just _knew_. No one had to say even _one_ word, because I already knew. I told everyone that I just needed…one more minute alone with her. They all left, and for a while, I just…_stood _there, hoping beyond all hope that she was just asleep. But she wasn't. At first, I thought about just walking out the door and telling them I was done but…that necklace. Any memory I had of her, she was wearing that necklace. So I took it. Fastened it around my neck and no one ever knew the difference." She stopped, still looking off into the distance with a dazed expression. Even now, the rain was coming down, harder though, and Ellen could feel Harry's eyes on her, scrutinizing her features. But, for whatever reason, she didn't really mind that much. _

- - -

April 10th, 1912

It was sailing day. The Titanic was _finally_ setting off and Ellen was more than a little excited. She had been out on the sea with the ship before, for the fitting and her short voyage from Belfast to Southampton, but both times, there had been no passengers. She may not have enjoyed most of their company, but without them, the ship just didn't feel complete.

She joined in their sending off, waving at the crowd below even though there was really no one for her to wave _at_. She supposed the point was more about tradition than an actual goodbye. Besides, the elation of the crowd was contagious; it was nearly impossible, unless you were a part of the crew, to stand on that deck and _not_ scream your farewells, whether in tacit gestures or jubilant words. Those in first class would severely frown upon her if they had seen how closely she mingled with steerage.

It went by quickly really. One moment, they were on board waving ecstatically and the next they were filtering back to their rooms. Not Ellen though, she had an odd stirring in the pit of her stomach as she stared back at the retreating shoreline from her place near Titanic's stern. She couldn't quite decipher it, that sensation, almost as though that strip of land was calling her back, desperately tugging at some invisible rope around her waist without much success. She shoved away the emotion, not understanding or desiring its presence.

"Ellen," said a familiar voice from behind her. She didn't respond, in fact she barely heard it, "Ellen," her uncle said slightly louder. She turned around, giving him a questioning look. "Are you alright?" Andrews asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Fine," she reassured him with a small smile. How long had she been out there? The shoreline was gone now and sun was quickly following it. Had that feeling really made such an impact?

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," Ellen took his arm and began walking back toward the first class entrance. "You worry too much. How did you find me anyway?"

"This is the officer's promenade, you should know that. Moody and Lowe spotted you from the bridge but couldn't abandon their posts."

"Am I so unlucky that both are on duty at once?"

"I thought you liked the officers, Ellen."

"I do. That's the problem; if they are both on duty at the same time then there will be four hours, several times a day, when they will leave me alone with only the first class passengers to entertain me."

He laughed lightly, "You need not worry, it's only until the passengers from Queenstown have boarded." She smiled approvingly.

"So how many people, may I ask, shall I be forced to meet?" He shook his head with a small smile before, without answering, opening the door and pulling her into "the battle zone." By the looks of the crowd, it was going to be a _long_ night. And the travelers from France and Ireland hadn't even arrived yet. She sighed heavily before putting on her most charming smile.

- - -

Those hours of introduction, if it had even been that long, had been the most prolonged, the most _boring _of her entire life. Sadly, she wasn't done yet but she _did_ have a short break. It would be around half an hour before the passengers from Cherbourg came aboard so she quickly retreated to the bow, her most beloved space on the entire ship. Night had fallen over Titanic, bathing it in a blanket of deep blue, the moon and her handmaidens reflected in the endless ocean.

"Well you certainly look glum," James informed her as he came to stand against the railing, "who died?" She glared back at him.

"Every first class person on board, and if they haven't, they certainly act that way."

"I bet you fit right in," he told her sarcastically, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket.

"That's a laugh," she looked at the cylinder of paper and tobacco he was currently lighting with disgust. "Why do you smoke those?"

"I think you've asked me that about fifty-two times now," James said, smoke pouring from his lips as he spoke. She'd bet anything, he timed that deliberately.

"You're being overly dramatic."

"I've been _counting."_

Ellen rolled her eyes jokingly, "Well even if you _were_ right, it's not like you ever answer. So let's make it fifty-three: why do you feel the need to smoke those?"

"Because it bothers _you_."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Why do you tease poor Ellen, Moody?" asked a very distinctive Welsh accent. Ellen turned around to see Harry, in the same black uniform as James, looking at her, instead of the man he was questioning, with a charming smile. She smiled back.

"I live to annoy Ms. Whitehouse." The young girl's eyes reluctantly left Harry's.

"You know I hate to be called that," she informed him.

James looked down at her innocently, "Do you? I had no idea."

"Actually," Harold said suddenly, "I was sent to tell you that you're needed back at the bridge. We're about to set anchor."

"So you didn't just come for the pleasure of my company," Ellen asked with playful disappointment.

"No," he told her with a sigh, "that was just an additional benefit." As she gave a good-natured chuckle, Moody dropped the barely used cigarette over the railing.

"And _now_ you pollute the _fish_ with that ash?" Ellen exclaimed in shock. He looked at her in astonishment.

"It's _one _cigarette! It only occupies a centimeter of water in the _ocean_. I don't think the fish will know the difference."

"You don't know what could happen." With a roll of his eyes, James pushed himself from his leaned position against the railing. Her mind quickly changed its course as the other officer began to leave as well, "I _will_ see you tomorrow Harry, won't I?"

"Of course, I'll make a conscious effort to find you."

"Will you forget?" she asked, uncertainty lingering in her voice.

"How could I ever forget you Ellen?" She couldn't help but smile, inside and out, at that remark.

"G'night Harry, g'night James."

"G'night," Moody threw over his shoulder.

In a soft voice Harry finally replied, "G'night Ellen."

**I hope it's not too cheesy! Tell me what you think, just press the little review button and perhaps…something…cool…will…happen… **

**Not guaranteeing anything… **


	4. The Waltz

**Disclaimer: I don't own Titanic. Period. End of sentence. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing this fanfiction right now...I'd be making it a movie! R/R!**

**Chapter 4: The Waltz **

April 10th, 1912

Cherbourg. A beautiful city really; Ellen wished they could have boarded closer to the shore, but instead Titanic put down her anchor a mile away and ferried the passengers over. The first group of people she met was by far the most promising.

Mr. Emil Taussig was twenty-nine years old and an extremely tall man, six-foot-four at least, with straight, onyx hair and gentle brown eyes. His wife, Charlotte, was much shorter, around Ellen's height. Her darkly red hair was pinned at the top of her head, as fashion demanded, and contrasted brilliantly with the emerald green of her eyes. Youngest of the Taussigs was Marjorie, Emil's younger sister, whose blonde hair was pinned in much the same fashion as her sister-in-law's and with the same color, though paled in shade, of eyes. Lastly, her fiancé, Mr. William Hipkins, had a similar shade of hair as his betrothed, though his eyes had more of a hazel hue. All-in-all they were a very handsome group and much more pleasant to speak with than the rest of their class, though Emil and Marjorie's deep French accent made it difficult to communicate with at times. However, it was Charlotte's remark, on hearing Ellen's last name, that really intrigued the young brunette.

"Are you of any relation to George Whitehouse?" she asked almost immediately.

"He is my cousin," she had replied trying to hold back a grimace. She had never liked George. He made her feel an unpleasant stirring in the pit of her stomach. His amiable mask was all too visible to her eyes and, it seemed, just the opposite to the rest of the world. He simply oozed false charm. "May I ask how you know him?"

"Why, he is on board of course," Mr. Taussig spoke up. Ellen tried, with everything in her not to look stunned and somewhat appalled. Her cousin? On board? Why was she cursed with such sour luck? And _why_ had Uncle Andrews not informed her? He would have been perfectly aware of his name on the manifest, so why keep it a secret? Her charming smile, however, did not falter.

"Oh is he?" she answered sweetly, "I wonder why I was not told?" The others may have been fooled but Thomas was perfectly aware of her slight aggravation at him. Perhaps he could see the fire in her eyes or, more likely, it was the pain he felt as she squeezed his arm, which was looped through hers, so tightly he wondered if it was really a five foot four girl that was gripping that appendage or a well built man instead.

"Perhaps it was a surprise?" Marjorie suggested excitedly, looking toward her fiancé who smiled merely affectionately in response.

"Well, I'm surprised alright. Did he say anything of me?"

"I remember him mentioning that he had a cousin who couldn't waltz," Ellen's face fell slightly at Charlotte's comment, "but he couldn't have been speaking of you." The woman in question smiled as though reassured, but in her mind she _knew _he must have meant her. She was only cousin he had. However she resolved not to let the comment get to her.

- - -

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Ellen counted her steps in her head as she watched her feet closely, her arms poised as though her waltzing partner was before her. She would get this dance down perfectly if it was the last thing she ever did. One, two, three. One, two, thr—

"It helps if you have a partner."

Ellen spun around startled and obviously embarrassed toward a very amused looking Harold Lowe.

"I-I—well I was practicing," she finally got out.

"Why?"

Ellen sighed, "Someone said I wasn't good at waltzing." His handsome young face broke into a smile.

"If you had a partner, it may be easier to practice." He put out his hand, offering it to her. Hesitantly, she reached forward and gently laid her slender fingers into his palm. She stepped forward quickly and positioned the other hand on his shoulder. He placed his on her waist.

"You know," she said trying to make conversation, "I've noticed that you know everything about me but I don't know hardly anything about you." It was true. She had practically divulged her entire life story but he was still a mystery to her; still, neither of them was looking at the other. Apparently, even though both knew the steps, they had forgotten what they were without watching their feet.

"Wait," he said, pulling his hands from her and stepping back a few feet, "stop!"

"What?" She stepped backward as well.

"Listen. Ellen…you're a _girl_."

"Thank you for that input, Harry. Without your help I might have never known."

"That's _not_ what I meant."

"How else, may I ask, am I _supposed_ to take that?"

He ignored her slightly offensive tone, "_You're_ a girl, _I'm_ a boy. You are _supposed_ to _follow_, not lead."

"Oh," she said, his point dawning on her, "but I don't know—."

"Every time I make a move, do what I do. Instead of you showing _me _what to do, I'll show you." She nodded nervously.

"O-okay."

"It starts before the dance even begins. I step toward you—,"

"And so do I," for both, their actions mirrored their words. He smiled slightly.

"I place my hand here…" it went to her waist, gentler than she had noticed before, and sent a small shock through her body. She swallowed hard.

"And mine goes here," his shoulder.

"My hand goes up…"

"And I take it." She hadn't remembered her fingers shaking that way before. Luckily he hadn't taken off those black officer's gloves otherwise, she was _sure_ she would have been _very_ aware of every centimeter of that exposed skin. And then the steps began again. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. She wasn't counting to keep track of her movements anymore though. Now the action served a different purpose: to keep her mind off how _very _close to her he was. "So," she began again, her speaking serving the same purpose as before: to break the tension, "you never answered my statement."

"What statement?" he asked, question lingering behind deeply brown eyes.

"You know so much about me, but I know nothing of you."

"What would you like to know?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment, "Anything," Ellen answered finally, "anything at all."

"Hmmm, well I ran away when I was fourteen."

"Whatever for?"

"My father wanted me to be an apprentice but I was not going to work for anyone for nothing…I wanted to get paid for my labor."

"Seems like a silly reason to run away, Harry."

"It was, but it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Did you ever go back?"

"No, of course not."

"But why?! If you have seen the error in your ways why haven't you gone back?" Harry looked back at her sadly. "Are you too stubborn?" he didn't answer but the confirmation was in his eyes. She nodded quickly, moving on, "And after that?"

"I worked as a ship's boy on Welsh coastal schooners for about ten years, then I got my Second Mate's certificate and two years later my First Mate's certificate." She was quiet, not wanting to ask the question screaming in her mind.

"What's the matter?" he asked. Why did she have to be so easily read? She looked up, not with her head but with her eyes, and she couldn't help but give him an honest answer.

"Why haven't you gone back to your family, Harry? They were probably worried sick."

"I can't, Ellen."

"You can't," she began with an edge to her voice, "or you won't?"

"I just can't," that angry tone had grown contagious.

"Harry—."

"You don't know what you're talking about Ellen." She found it slightly strange, somewhere in the back of her mind, that they could still continue the waltz calmly even though both were steadily growing more irritated at the other.

"Temper, temper," she reprimanded bitterly.

"Well, what do you know about it?"

"I know that you should never take advantage of the family you have, or one day you may wake up without them!"

Understanding burst into his eyes, softness returning quickly after it, "Ellen," no one had ever said her voice with so much meaning behind it before, "I'm sorry."

"No," Ellen replied with a sigh, "I'm the one who should be sorry. I never should have gotten so angry at you."

"Your right, it is your fault," he told her jokingly.

"Now I wouldn't go that far, Harry," her face bloomed into a smile. The steps had come to a halt for a moment, but now they began once more, only this time, as Ellen took that first step forward, her foot gracefully caught the hem of her satin dress and sent her entire body falling forward. She would have thought that twenty-one years of wearing the exact same kind of dresses would have prevented such mishap. However if Harry's hands, which were securely fastened around her elbows and the only thing keeping her from tumbling face-first into the wooden deck, were any indication, she had obviously been wrong in her assumption.

After recovering from the suddenness of the accident, that particular tension in her stomach seemed to fade into amused laughter mirroring that of the man holding her up. She tilted her head upward only to have her giggles die once more. One inch. That's how much space stood between Harry's lips and hers; she had no doubt about that measurement. One inch. He seemed to have noticed as well. Her deeply brown orbs flickered restlessly between his eyes and mouth with silent but quickened breath. Butterflies were wreaking havoc in her stomach and she was caught between wanting him to kiss her and wondering if it would get him into trouble. She had _never_ been in a silence so deafening, even the ocean's roar had been drowned out.

"I—," Ellen began, cutting herself short and letting out a deep breath. "It's late. I should probably—." He nodded nervously, cutting her off.

"You must be—," his voice was as whispery as hers.

"Yes, I am. And you should—."

"I will." It took them both a moment to move as they had said they would. Neither wanted to, but neither would admit that. He pushed her to her feet with more care than was really necessary and took a step backward. With hands clasped in front of her daintily, she stared at the floorboards, embarrassed.

"Your uncle will be worried about you," Harry told her suddenly. Ellen merely nodded in response before turning sharply and heading off in the direction of the staterooms. She really _was_ tired.

"Harry," she had stopped walking now.

"Yes, Ellen?" he inquired from behind her.

"Thank you for the dancing lesson."

"Your welcome," looking over her shoulder she could see him smile, "I just hope you can keep your balance next time."

Laughing lightly, she answered, "You're not the only one."

- - -

Ellen headed down the elaborately decorated hallway in the direction of her room, however, before going to bed, she, as always, stopped by Uncle Andrew's suite to say goodnight. Poking her head through the open entryway the young woman was not surprised to see her uncle meticulously going over the corrections he thought needed to be made on the ship he was aboard. She doubted anyone would notice them in Titanic's later voyages but she didn't think it right to spoil his fun.

"Uncle Andrews," she called, gaining his attention, "I came to say goodnight."

He smiled good-naturedly before replying, "Goodnight Ellen. I will see you in the morning." She nodded with a grin and began to continue her walk toward her suite. "Oh, and Ellen," she heard him call before she had moved a mere two steps away. She looked back into the stateroom, "We're having lunch with Mr. Ismay and some other passengers tomorrow."

"I'll be there, Uncle."

With a mischievous smile he continued on, "I know Mr. Lowe is a very handsome man, but _try_ not to be late, would you?"

Her cheeks blushed lightly, "I will _try_." Without waiting for anymore of his teasing, she turned and walked to bed. She didn't know how well she would sleep though, for even while she walked though Titanic's luxurious halls and into the Georgian styled room only one thing, or rather, person, plagued her mind. Harry. She plopped into bed with a sigh; it was going her be a _very _longnight.

**A/N Alright so there you have it! Chapter four! I hope you liked it. Oh and a side-note: I went back and put in dates for chapters 2 and 3. I'll be doing it that way for the rest of the story just to make it less confusion...of couse I'll stop when I get to the sinking because that might be a tad tedious. I also changed the color of the officer's uniforms in chapter 3 because when i watch the movie again I realized they only look blue sometimes. Ok I'm done rambling now! REVIEW...no flames though...**


	5. The Dreaded Cousin

**Disclaimer: I don't own Titanic…not really any other way to say that...o I know! Je ne posséde pas le Titanic. Yeah that's French, if it's not right…my bad. **

**Chapter 5: The Dreaded Cousin **

April 11th, 1912

"James have you ever been in love?" Ellen wasn't looking at him; in fact, she wasn't sure _what_ she was looking at. James and she had been out here to the officer's promenade since his shift ended and Harry's, who she'd been talking with before, began. Currently she and the sixth officer were leaned casually against the ship's railing, Ellen with her back against it and James's elbows atop the metal bars, a small cigarette dangling between his fingers and coming to his lips with increasing frequency. Ellen had given up the fight against smoking hours ago.

He turned toward her with a thoroughly confused expression; he obviously had not been expecting the question.

"What?" he asked with furrowed brow. Ellen turned away from the spot she _wasn't _looking at.

"Have you ever been in love?"

"I know what you said, what I don't know is _why." _

She looked away, a slight blush tinting her cheeks, "No reason." He knew though. Either she was falling in love with someone or she already had. And James had a pretty good idea who the 'someone' was too.

"Uh-huh," he replied with a smile in his voice.

"Just answer the question, James." He didn't miss the irritation that laced her voice.

"No," he looked back out at the horizon, "no I haven't." There was something in his voice, signaling a deeper meaning in his words. At the time, however, Ellen didn't notice.

She scoffed, "Well you're no help _what_soever." James rolled his eyes heavenward and the pair drifted back into comfortable silence.

"James," Ellen said urgently as an important thought entered her mind, "what time is it?" He pulled out a golden pocket watch from his jacket and inspected it for a brief moment.

"Time for my shift to begin, Harry's to end, and you to go to your lunch date." She sighed, relieved that she'd remembered on time, "Actually," he continued, "you should have been there, oh say, fifteen minutes ago."

- - -

Ellen walked away from the elevator out of breath with hair slightly, though not noticeably askew gaining a scrutinizing look from the elevator's operating attendant. She arrived in the portside veranda short of breath with an uncanny ability to feel every eye that watched her.

"Ah, there Ellen is now," Uncle Andrews said smiling and making his way toward her as the other men stood stiffly before their place. Mr. Ismay, with his brown hair and thick mustache was easily recognized. To his right was a rather tall man with blue eyes and jet-black hair who her uncle introduced as Caledon Hockley; to his other side was a woman, plump in physique but emanating a sort of happily mischievous air. Ellen liked her already. Mrs. Dewitt Bukater, however, immediately earned her distrust. With red hair and blue eyes, she looked perfectly normal but her countenance was calculating and condescending. Ellen would have done anything to avoid her gaze. Rose's chair was vacant and she wasted no time seating herself in it. Immediately she regretted the decision. Mr. Hockley and his soon-to-be mother-in-law seemed to fence her in creating a sort of cage that could make even the most laid back of people feel uncomfortable. Ellen was starting to understand why Rose's chair was empty.

"Well it's very nice to meet ya Ellen," Margaret Brown said with a smile, "I hope you're enjoyin' yourself aboard the grandest ship in the world." She said that title with such pride that it seemed as though she'd taken in the ship almost as her own, just as Ellen herself had.

"I am. Thank you for asking Mrs. Brown."

"Oh don't start with that 'Mrs. Brown' stuff. Call me Molly." Ellen nodded and smiled politely, casting a glance toward Thomas. They were even, she could tell by the look in his eye. He hadn't told her about George and she had been late to lunch. Yes, being mad was no longer an option.

"What takes up so much of your time Miss Whitehouse?" She didn't like Mrs. Dewitt Bukater's tone. It was mocking, arrogant, and for a moment, Ellen wanted to lie, to say she had been doing something drastically important just to see the look of pure astonishment on the woman's face. She pushed the thought aside however and answered honestly.

"I was on the promenade with a friend."

"Who?" she continued. Ellen didn't see what difference it made to her. Why was she so interested in whom she spoke with anyway? It wasn't as though she knew her.

"Mr. James Moody," she answered, despite the thoughts that plagued her.

"James who?" the woman asked again. Mr. Ismay knew the name but didn't seem to be able to place him in his mind. Ellen glanced toward her uncle for reassurance. She wasn't ashamed of her friendship with the crew; the question was, was he? He nodded. Apparently not.

"He's the captain's sixth officer."

"Whitehouse?" Mr. Hockley said suddenly as though he had been contemplating something for some time. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"I think you are remembering Mr. George Whitehouse. He is my cousin and aboard the ship, though I haven't had the pleasure of speaking to him yet."

"Ah yes," Mr. Ismay spoke up, "Mr. Whitehouse. Good businessman, I've worked with him before. You're lucky to have him for a cousin." Ellen could beg to differ but in the sake of politeness, she merely nodded with a fake but convincing smile.

"I think there's someone lookin' to talk to ya dear," Molly said suddenly. The young woman turned to look toward whoever Molly's eyes were resting on. Harold Lowe, for some unfathomable reason, was standing next to Mrs. Dewitt Bukater with a slightly raised eyebrow and small smirk.

She smiled, "Hello H—Mr. Lowe," it would have been inappropriate for her to use his first name in front of the others, or at least they would have thought so. "Is there something you need?"

"The captain wants to speak with you."

"Whatever for?" she asked with furrowed brow, worry creeping into her voice. Harry looked at the others as though he wasn't supposed to speak of such things in front of them before leaning down to whisper in her ear.

"Do you really want to be with these stuck up first class passengers for who knows how long," he said, his breath on her ear sending a shiver down her spine, "or are you going to pretend that whatever I'm telling you is extremely important?" She nodded her head, trying to seem as though she was hearing something serious.

As the officer moved back into a standing position, Ellen looked up at her uncle and asked politely, "May I be excused, Uncle Andrews?" The others may have been convinced that Harry was on urgent business but the master shipbuilder knew better. However, that didn't stop him from nodding once in confirmation as she stood to her feet. "I'm terribly sorry that I couldn't stay longer," his niece said to the rest of the table.

"We'll see you again at dinner, Ellen, don't you worry."

"Thank you Molly." And with that, she wasted no more time in that first class hellhole and followed Harry through à la Carte restaurant.

On entering the elevator, Ellen turned, smiling, toward her companion, "I think you may have saved my life Harry."

"I believe I just might have. Do they always look that way or are they in an especially gloomy mood today?"

"Actually that's what they look like when they're happy."

"I'd hate to see them in total despair."

"They would black out the sun." The operating attendant opened the copper gate in one smooth motion.

"Have you had opportunity to try out your new dancing skills?" Harry asked with a smile.

"No, thankfully I have not."

"Why 'thankfully'?"

"Because," she elaborated, "the only people I can dance with at parties are stuck-up first class men, and my cousin, George."

"Did someone mention my name?" a familiar voice asked from behind. Ellen silently sent up a prayer that those hazel eyes boring into her back did not belong to her cousin. They did. She and Harry turned to gaze, most unwillingly, at the overly handsome face and curly golden locks of George Arthur Whitehouse. "Ah, Ellen it seems as though it's been a lifetime since we last talked."

"If you'll remember it wasn't a very pleasant conversation."

"That was so long ago, cousin. Must you continue to hold a grudge against me?"

"Of course not George, but the question that plagues my mind is if _you_ do." A flicker of resentment passed over his face but he replaced it so quickly with a charming smile that onlookers might have thought they had only imagined it.

"That was ages ago; can we not forget the past?"

"We can," she said shortly but in the look that passed between them Harry could clearly see that the words they spoke were only that—words. No truth or feeling was behind them and the officer felt it necessary to extract Ellen from her cousin's company as soon as possible.

"Ellen," he said quietly, "I believe the captain needed to see us."

George quickly put on his charming façade once more, tilting his head politely, "Good-day Ellen. I hope to see you again soon." His cousin did not respond nor did she bother with a courteous smile. She merely took Harry's arm and turned away without trying to be civil.

"Dare I ask why there's so much tension between the two of you?" he asked when they were out of earshot.

"It's nothing," she said dismissively.

"Ellen," she looked up at him, "won't you trust me enough to tell me?"

She sighed heavily. The longer Harry was in her life, it seemed, the harder it was to say no to him. "Do you promise not to look at me differently or treat me different if I tell you?"

His brow furrowed, "Of course."

"You swear," he nodded. "Alright, well you see the thing is our grandmother, George's and mine, is very rich, one of the wealthiest people I know in fact. On top of that, she's a hypochondriac. According to her, she's been dying for the past twenty years. So twenty years ago, when I was around a year old and George was ten, she drew up a will thinking that she'd be dead in the next week or so. At first, everyone thought that her money was split between her son, George's father, and her widowed daughter-in-law. However, five years ago someone discovered that every coin, every servant and every floorboard she owned was left to my mother and me. I didn't know why but George accused us of somehow _forcing _her to leave his family out. I had never been too fond of him before but a few moments ago was the first time we've spoken since then. What worries me the most, though, is the fact that I am the only one standing between George Whitehouse and an enormous fortune. It frightens me."

"Why?" he asked worriedly, clutching her arm noticeably tighter.

"George and his father would do anything for money, and I'm afraid to find out what 'anything' is."

- - -

Ellen rushed through the steerage passengers on the ship's hull, looking over her shoulder with steadily growing regularity. The young woman wasn't sure when her conversation with Harry had turned into a playful game but she didn't want to question the matter. Coming to a halt near a group of men who seemed to be talking of whatever came to mind, she searched the crowd behind her wondering if she had lost him. One of the blonde men, who looked to be only a little younger than Ellen herself, looked up from his sketchbook with a raised eyebrow.

"I think you're on the wrong part of the ship, Miss," he stated in a polite American accent.

"Have any of the officers come down here?" she asked quickly, ignoring his statement.

"No ma'am," he answered looking at the object in her hand, "but I can only guess they'll be looking for their hat."

"I think I'll be safe hanging around here for a while," she told him matter-of-factly.

"The Master-at-Arms will have your head for thievery, first class or not," a curly headed man sporting a bowler spoke up.

"No he won't."

"What makes you so special?" he asked disdainfully.

"I didn't steal this, well not technically. The officer I took it from is my friend," she placed the cap atop her head, "I don't think he'll mind…well not enough to get me arrested," she smiled mischievously, "I'm Ellen Whitehouse by the way."

"Tommy Ryan," said the curly headed one.

"Jack Dawson," said the blonde before pointing toward his Italian friend, "and this is Fabrizio." The other man smiled happily. It was then, when she finally was beginning to feel safe again, that Harry appeared right beside Tommy looking angry though slightly amused. She took a few steps backward, removing the hat from her head and holding it behind her, and he moved forward until he was standing only a few inches from her. The group she had been speaking to watched with interest. He moved his arm left to reach behind her; she turned her body blocking his grasp. He moved his arm right and she did the same as before.

"Ellen," he said warningly.

"Yes Harry?"

"Give me my hat back." His face was not all that far from hers but she didn't have time to notice.

"I don't really want to."

"Ellen," he said though slightly gritted teeth. She smiled impish and stood on tiptoe to get closer to his face.

"How are you going to make me, Officer Lowe?" She could see his eyes calculating, mulling over an option he was obviously desperate to go through with. He looked her in the eyes before his gaze drifted to the mouth only centimeters from his and then Harold Lowe did something Ellen had been thinking on for some time. He kissed her.

**And so ends Chapter 5, I hope you liked it! Oh and by the way, when I added the dates last chapter, I accidentally put April 12th after the flashback (Chapter 2) but it should have been April 10th! I fixed it though! Anyway, review! It will make me happy! No flames though! **


	6. Matters of the Heart

**Disclaimer: I don't own Titanic. If you're still questioning that fact in Chapter 6 there's no hope for you. **

**Chapter 6: Matters of the Heart **

April 11th, 1912

Harry kissed her, _kissed _her. At first, her mind couldn't quite absorb the idea. He kissed her, _kissed_ her

The officer drew back, seemingly as shocked by the decision as she was. Vaguely, she noticed the three steerage passengers waiting on baited breath as though it had been them to do the kissing. Ellen's face was heating at an unbearable rate. Why did she always have to blush at moments like these? Not that she had much experience in the matter. She wasn't the type of girl who went around kissing every male that moved. The two of them hadn't shifted far from one another but she still found enough space to reposition her head in the direction of the floorboards.

"Did—,"she swallowed hard before gaining enough courage to look up into his eyes. She had never noticed that little bit of dark blue in them before, "Was that just to get your hat back?" He smiled and let out a small, breathy laugh. Tucking a fallen chocolate curl behind her ear tenderly, he gave a barely discernible shake of his head.

"No, I wanted to do that," he told her. She couldn't help but smile as well.

"That's very good news." This time, when she kissed him, she was coherent enough to take in every detail, every taste, every smell, and every color that exploded behind closed lids. The sea's breeze, that's what he reminded her of most of all. It was that faintly salty and clean smell she had always loved so much. He was very much like the ocean to her. Calm and gentle at times but with a terrible temper that she had only seen once, before Titanic's sailing. He smelled like the sea, tasted like the sea and at that particular moment she could barely tell where the ocean ended and he began. Yes, she _had_ gotten that lost in the kiss and she wasn't quite sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

A gloved hand tapped Harold's shoulder drawing the couple's attention. Reluctantly, they drew apart. Moody looked at the two with a thoroughly amused expression.

"Yes, James," Ellen said with slight irritation. "Is there something you need?"

"Harry," he said looking at the man in question, "Wilde told me to tell you, and I quote, 'Get your ass up here, Lover Boy.'" Harold laughed and looked back at the girl whose hands were still resting tightly on his shoulders.

"I have to go," he told her.

"I know," she backed away from him.

He motioned behind her, smiling, "You can keep the hat for now, if you like." She looked back at the deck behind her to see the cap lying motionless where she must have dropped it at some point. In a very lady-like manner, she bent down to retrieve it and then promptly rested it on her head. Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek. Other girls might have been shy after a first kiss but Ellen was not 'other girls'.

A few moments later, he turned to walk toward the bridge, snatching Moody's hat along the way. The sixth officer began to protest but gave up quickly after realizing that he was being ignored. He was glowing, Ellen noticed, with the same kind of blissful contentment as she herself. She walked to the railing in a daze.

"You look happy," James commented simply.

"So do you."

He paused, "I am." Distantly, she wondered why.

- - -

At dinner, Ellen was horrified to find that George Whitehouse had somehow found himself seated with her and her uncle. Along with him came his sister Anne who was so quiet in manner that Ellen often forgot she was there. She was a beautiful girl with dainty features, strawberry blonde hair, and apple green eyes. If it weren't for her severe timidity, she would have constantly been the center of attention. However, as it were, even her relatives forgot her presence. However, there was something. A slight gesture in response to a simple question by Mrs. Brown that caught Ellen's attention. None of the party had spoken much before but as Molly jokingly referred to James Moody and how Ellen had been speaking to him that morning; Anne, normally detached and distant, snapped into attention. It wasn't the entire comment that drew her interest either. It was the name: James Moody.

"Did you speak with him any more today Ellen?" her uncle asked.

"Briefly," she replied, not taking her eyes from the nineteen-year-old girl seated across from her.

"Are you seeing this boy?" Marjorie, who was also joining them for dinner along with her family and fiancé, asked mischievously. Something in Anne's countenance went green.

"No, I'm not. He's just a friend of mine." Ellen's cousin relaxed. And suddenly, putting the scattered and vague puzzle pieces together, the young brunette knew _exactly_ what was going on.

"_Are_ you seeing anyone?" Charlotte added, after all the others, not including herself and Marjorie, were engaged in a separate conversation. However, Ellen had a feeling Anne was listening too.

"What do you define as 'seeing someone'?" she asked trying to hide a blush.

"That would be a 'yes'." Charlotte said with a laugh, her sister-in-law joining her. Ellen, however, had quickly gotten over her embarrassment and was now completely focused on Anne. The girl seemed to be sitting on pins and needles, as though nervous and uncomfortable.

"And how was your day Anne?" Ellen asked suddenly. The entire table turned to the other Miss Whitehouse as though just noticing her presence.

"Very good, thank you," she answered in that sweet, whispery voice of hers.

"Did you meet anyone of interest?"

"No."

"Have you run into anyone you were already acquainted with?" she asked more pointedly. Anne paused as though contemplating the meaning of her cousin's words.

"No," she said finally, "no I have not."

- - -

Ellen slapped James's right arm as he walked across the bridge. She really shouldn't have been bothering him; after all, he _was_ on duty. Instead of reprimanding her however, Charles Lightoller let out a burst of laughter.

"What was that for?" Moody asked, more confused than in actual pain.

"Did you lie to me?" she inquired seriously.

"What?"

"This morning," Ellen elaborated, "when I asked you if you had ever been in love, did you lie to me?" Lightoller had quickly grown engrossed in the conversation.

"Well of course I lied to you," James said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, "it wasn't the sort of thing to tell the truth about."

"May I ask with _whom_?"

"'With _whom'_ what?"

Ellen rolled her eyes heavenward, "With _whom_ are you in love with?"

"I'm not telling you." He began to walk in the direction he'd been going before she'd stopped him. The young woman followed.

"That is so childish James. Please tell me."

"No!"

"What if I guessed, then would you tell me if I was right or wrong?"

He sighed, turning to face her, "Alright."

"Hmmm," she placed a finger to her lips as though actually giving it some thought, "Let…me…see."

"Tick, tock," James said with irritation.

"Anne Whitehouse."

"Oh, you already knew." He was walking away again.

"Of course I knew. Nobody asks to guess if they don't already know the answer."

"She has a point," the captain said casually as Herbert Pitman handed him a cup of tea.

James looked incredulous, "Is _everyone_ listening to this conversation?"

"How long, James?" she asked. Her voice had lost its playful tone and was now laced with that soft melody which women tend to get after being told a very romantic tale.

"Awhile," he informed her over his shoulder in a soft and faraway voice. Regretfully, he never told her how long 'awhile' was.

- - -

"Did you know?" Ellen asked Harry who stood next to her on the vacant promenade, leaving no space between them. The two only had a few minutes left together. At nine, he'd have to leave; work. Never had she hated his position as an officer as much as she did right at that moment. She moved closer.

"About Anne?" he asked simply.

"No, I mean," she sighed, turning her face toward him, "did you know he was in love?"

"I had an idea," he studied her countenance before continuing, "to be honest, I thought it was you."

"You did?" asked Ellen disbelievingly.

He nodded, "But what scared me more was…the idea that you might feel the same."

"Really?" she smiled, her voice whispery.

"No, I'm just saying that."

"Ha, ha, funny."

"_I_ thought so." Their light laughter slowly died out, as the couple's faces drew closer. Harry rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, "Ellen I—."

"Ellen!" called a woman's voice, her French accent giving away her identity. Harry took a step backward, putting a 'proper' amount of space between them.

"Over here, Marjorie!" she yelled, reluctantly tearing her eyes from the officer.

"Ah, there you are," the young woman began, coming to stand beside her new friend, "your uncle asked me to see if you were alright," she stopped when noticing the officer's presence. "Who is your friend?"

"This is Harold Lowe; Harry this is Marjorie Taussig."

"Very nice to meet you Miss Taussig."

"And you, Mr. Lowe."

"It's time for me to go," he said after a moment, "I'll see you tomorrow, Ellen." She and Marjorie said their goodbyes and Harry turned to leave. Ellen couldn't seem to keep herself from watching him go.

"Il est très, très beau, Ellen."

"You know I don't speak French Marjorie," she told her, looking away from the spot Harry had just disappeared.

"Forgive me, I slip in and out. I said, 'He is very, very handsome,'" Ellen blushed. Teasingly, Marjorie continued, "Is he the man you are in love with?"

"I've never been in love. And I don't think I would know even if I was." Her eyes drifted to the bridge longingly.

"Do you not like it when he is away?" her voice was serious again.

"No," the young woman told her, "I wish he didn't have to go." Marjorie gave her a knowing look but said nothing more.

- - -

Ellen's slender knuckles rapped on the wooden door in front of her in a simple melody. _Click-clack, click-clack. _It didn't take long for the room's resident to answer the call. Anne opened the door with timidity, which, considering her manner, was to be expected. Her long hair braided loosely at the base of her neck and the floor length, cotton nightgown she wore suggested that she had been preparing to go to bed, as were most of the ships inhabitants.

"Yes, Ellen," she said sweetly. Her voice was like honey. Ellen wondered why she had never noticed before.

"I know it's a little late at night to speak of this, but I wanted to say that I'm sorry." Her cousin's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, "Just because your brother and I don't get along is no reason me to shun you as well."

"You needn't worry," she reassured her, "I don't like my brother either." Though there was laughter in her voice, Ellen sensed something deeper. It was almost as though the words she spoke were not as strong as the emotion they were trying to portray; as though her feelings ran deeper that 'dislike'. The younger cousin's face contorted into worry, as if just realizing the words she'd spoken.

"You won't tell him I said that, will you?" she continued urgently.

"Of course not." And with that seemingly unnecessary bit of worry on Anne's part, Ellen felt that something was wrong. No, no she _knew_. George was capable of hurting people close to him without remorse and his cousin had a feeling that he was making full use of that talent. She didn't know when it had begun or why but she did know one thing. She was merely a woman and, therefore, there was nothing she could do.

- - -

Ellen talked with Anne for a little awhile longer before letting the younger girl head off to bed. The brunette was worried for her cousin but decided it best to say nothing of it. For now, at least. She headed in the direction of her uncle's stateroom to bid him goodnight. The evening before had been the first time in a while that the two had not gone about their regular nightly ritual.

It was quite simple really. She would walk into the room, where he would be working on something or another, and kneel down next to him. Her head would come to rest on his shoulder and she would look, quite interested, at whatever sat before him. He would wrap his arm around her in a sort of half-hug and both would stay there for a moment or two, staring at the desk, before Ellen sat herself upon the floor. He would simply ask how her day had been. She would give him a one word answer, mostly because, whether or not he let on, he knew everything that had happened in the course of the day. She would ask the same question, he would give the same answer, for the same reason, and then suggest she go to bed. She would comply, they both would stand, she'd hug him tightly, he'd kiss her forehead, and she would leave, promising not to be late for lunch the next day.

The night of April 11th was no different. Though the routine was redundant, Ellen wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world and, as she walked toward her room, she vaguely wondered what she would do when he was gone. She hoped she wouldn't have to face that emptiness for quite some time.

Unfortunately, not all wishes come true.

**Chapter Six! Oh yeah! As always I hope you like it and you need to review now! Review, review, review! If I could give you a cookie I would, however, my sources are limited...it's sad, I know. Well anyway...until next chapter this is CoffeeGirl13 signing off, back to you Bob...oh no I'm turning into a weather man! God help me!**


	7. Overprotective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic or any of the people. Anne and George are the only ones that belong to me. It's kind of sad isn't it? **

**Wow it's been a while since I've updated! I had a writer's block for a bit there so I kind of have an excuse. Not really though. Yeah, these two scenes in the beginning are just a little bit of history as far as Anne and James go. I get back to Ellen real quick though so no worries. **

**Chapter 7: Overprotective **

March 2, 1912

James Moody held a deep and immeasurable hatred for hat shopping. Yes you heard right, hat shopping. His sister, Sarah, in full knowledge of this loathing, felt the need to drag him on _every_ expedition to buy said accessory. Normally, he would have found any available opportunity to get out of going with her, but today was her seventeenth birthday and besides, he'd be leaving in a few weeks to join the crew of Titanic. He needed to spend some time with her.

Sarah was a very attractive young woman but there was no denying the resemblance between her and her brother. Sure, her face wasn't as square, her features not as masculine, and her hair not as short but she had the same chocolate eyes, high cheekbones and sandy blonde locks. Overall, it wasn't difficult to tell that they were family.

The worst part of shopping for hats, James decided, was the fact that he never, and I do mean never, knew what to do with himself while his sister finished doing whatever it was she was doing. He just, kind of, stood there looking thoroughly stupid or walked around the shop looking…well…thoroughly stupid. Either way, his image was pretty much the same. For that day, at least, he chose the second option.

Various colors of ribbons, cloths, and threads filled the room but James looked right through the eye-catching articles. He didn't know what he was thinking about but whatever it was, it was better than his current location. If he had been paying attention, he would have seen the other body moving towards him and stopped in time to keep himself from slamming into it. However he _wasn't _paying attention. In fact all he felt was his chest crash into something hard and then there was a tumult of color and a flash of silk.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so _very_ sorry!" were the only words that reached his ears through the chaos. He looked down to see a young girl, only a little older than his sister, down on her knees gathering up the materials he had just sent tumbling to the floor. He couldn't see her face but by the manner in which she was dressed, it was obvious that she was of the upper class. James knelt down to assist her.

"You're fine," he told her with a smile. Either she didn't hear him or she ignored his words.

"Please don't be angry with me. It was an accident, I promise."

"Hey," he chuckled finally catching her eye, "no harm done. Besides it was my fault anyway."

"No I should have been paying more attention. I—."

"How about we say it was both our faults and call it even?" James put out his hand for her to shake. She took it. "James Moody," he told her simply.

"Anne Whitehouse."

- - -

March 7th, 1912

"Are you alright?" James asked worriedly as he looked at the rather large bruise on the side of Anne's face. She turned away so the discoloration was out of his view.

"I'm fine," she stated firmly, her shy façade tossed aside for a brief moment. Instead of growing angry, James's countenance only became softer.

"What did he do to you?" he asked gently. He was talking about George. He knew it and she knew it. James may have only been familiar with the siblings for a few short days, but it never had taken him long to materialize bonds, good or bad, with his acquaintances. Anne's connection seemed to be the strongest of anyone before her and James was at a total loss as to why.

"He didn't _do_ anything," she said, too firmly to be convincing.

"Anne…" there was a long, weighty pause as James tried to persuade her with his eyes. It seemed to be working.

"You can't tell anyone. Promise you won't tell anyone."

"I can't promise that."

"Promise," she said again though now gritted teeth. He sighed. There would be no winning.

"Fine," his eyes were cast downward, "I promise."

"George—," she didn't seem to know exactly how to put it, "sometimes George g-gets…upset. At times, it's at me, other times…it's not. Either way, w-when he's angry…" she couldn't finish the sentence.

"Does…he hurt you?" he asked quietly. She nodded and suddenly James had a very strong urge to _kill_ George Whitehouse.

"It's not like there's anything I can do," Anne continued, "who would believe me? Who would believe _you,_ even, when all the proof you have is my word? I'm just a woman. Besides that, no one even knows I exist. What is my word to his? Nothing." As much as James hated to admit it, she was right. There was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that could be done. He wished there was though.

He sighed heavily, examining the imperfection carefully. His hand, of its own accord, reached up to gently caress it, more from the desire to touch _her_ than the bruise. She winced.

"Did that hurt?" he asked worriedly.

She nodded, "Only a little."

"Maybe you should see a physician or someone about it," he said quickly. "You could tell them you fell or—."

"James," interrupted Anne with a small smile, "you're worrying to much."

"I only worry because I care," his hand had migrated so that he was holding her chin, a little possessively, between thumb and forefinger.

"You do?" she asked quietly. The idea seemed to surprise her, as though someone caring for her was completely unheard of. That thought alone injured James. He nodded in response to her question.

The moment had become much more intimate than they first intended. It shouldn't be this way, _couldn't _be this way. He was just a humble officer; she was a first class lady. If he moved forward, took that simple step in the direction of 'something more', he would have to hide it, _they _would have to hide it, for God only knew how long. No one would be able to know, not even those closest to them. And with that in mind, he kissed her. And she kissed back.

April 12th, 1912

When Ellen woke, she could hardly believe all of the events that had occurred the day before had actually happened. It had all come about so quickly, so suddenly and she could hardly discern between reality and fantasy. Had she dreamed it all? She hoped not.

Her petite form laid restlessly in bed, unable to drift back to sleep but unwilling to get up and face the day, until Harriet, her middle aged lady's maid, came to wake her. Her corset was tied, her dress put on and her hair done but Ellen hardly registered a moment of it.

"What's the matter with you this morning Miss Whitehouse?" Harriet asked in her stern yet caring way.

"Nothing," Ellen said a little distantly, "nothing at all." The maid looked at her skeptically but gave no response. As the young woman began to make her way out of the first class stateroom, the older woman called after her.

"Miss," she said after getting her attention, "your uncle told me to tell you that there were reports of thievery lately and he wanted you to take your key." Titanic's locks, unlike modern ones, needed a key to secure both sides. If you didn't have one, it was impossible, not only to not lock your doors when you left, but you couldn't do so while you were inside either. Ellen never locked them from the outside, only from within, so she felt no need to cart that key around needlessly. Instead, she kept it securely fastened in the interior lock at all times. This worried her uncle persistently since he had discovered the habit, and he asked her not to do so with increasing frequency.

"Tell him he worries too much," she said defiantly, "or better yet _I _will tell him he worries too much." Harriet merely shook her head at that.

- - -

Ellen was late to lunch…again. Luckily, for her, she was in better company this time. There was no Mrs. Dewitt Bukater, no Caledon Hockley to cage her in. They probably had Rose off somewhere putting up their intangible bars around less elusive prey. As always, Uncle Andrews scolded her half-heartedly for her tardiness, his anger dissipating as she put on a remorseful façade.

When she saw Harry again, she was walking with Molly and Charlotte. They had asked her—not her uncle but _her—_to give them a tour of the ship. She had been so honored that they had even _considered_ asking her that she didn't think twice before agreeing. They had been near the bridge, just as the junior officers switched duties, when Harold came into view. For a moment, she forgot herself and yelled out his name.

He turned, smiling brightly when he saw who had called him, and made his way in their direction. When he was close enough, he greeted her with a kiss on the hand to which she responded with a blush. Somewhere in her mind, in the part she didn't _dare_ admit existed, she wished she could have kissed him. She pushed the thought aside quickly. It wasn't even proper for married couples to do so in public, so how much worse would it be for a couple who weren't even engaged? It was one thing to be so improper in front of steerage, it was quite another to be brazen around first class women. They were predators, all of them, waiting on baited breath for one slip up, one mistake so they could say terrible things about you to their friends.

"Charlotte, Molly this is Fifth Officer Lowe. Harry this is Mrs. Taussig and Mrs. Brown."

"It's very nice to meet you ladies," he said politely.

"You to, Mr. Lowe," Molly spoke up for them both, "and, please, call me Molly."

"Ah, there you are Ellen," Captain Edward said as he approached her. He threw in a polite, "Good day Molly, Mrs. Taussig," before continuing on. "I wanted to tell you that your uncle and I were discussing your habit of never lock your door," she looked a little embarrassed at the scolding tone in his voice. "There are thieves aboard this ship, Ellen, you should be more careful. Now I want your key with you at all times, am I understood?"

She sighed, "Alright, Mr. Smith. I will try to be less careless." He cracked a smile, letting her know that his anger was nonexistent no matter how much he put on. She probably wouldn't obey his orders, she thought distantly, but it was always best to let him think she would. There was nothing in that room she cared for anyway. As long as her uncle, her captain, her friends, the officers and _her_ officer were safe, she could cope with any theft that was laid upon her shoulders. But so far, the matter hadn't come up anyway.

- - -

"He's right you know," Harry told Ellen. They were alone now. Well, as alone as you can be on the largest ship in history. They found solace on the bow, the steerage section where shows of affection were not so frowned upon. They were leaned against the railing, standing close to one another, him looking down at her with a caring gaze.

"Who was right about what?" she asked confused, looking up at him now.

"Captain Smith. You being careful," he reached forward to touch the base of her ear, his hand tenderly memorizing the curve of her jaw.

"You all worry too much."

"Maybe," he told her, his eyes studying her face, "but I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"Don't talk like that. Nothing's going to happen to me."

"But if it did—."

"It won't," she persisted, pressing herself forward slightly. Harry leaned in, placing his lips a few centimeters from hers before stopping. She tilted forward, attempting to capture his mouth with her own, but he backed away just enough to keep the same small about of space between them.

"Impatient are we, Ellen?" he asked, sounding amused.

"That's not very nice, Harry."

"I suppose not." There was a pause as he examined her face, again committing every curve, every detail to memory.

"Are you going to kiss me?" Ellen asked frankly. "Because if not, I'm just wasting my time here."

He gave a mischievous smile, "Well I guess you had better go then." She gave a shocked laugh, pushing his backward lightly with a hand to the chest. Finally, his lips met hers in a smiling kiss. She backed away, letting her arms rest possessively on his shoulders.

In one quick and carefully timed movement, her hand darted upward snatching his hat away from him again and she darted off into a run. For a moment he stood in shock, not quite absorbing what had just happened.

_That girl will be the death of me,_ he thought to himself before dashing after her.

**So there you have it: the much awaited chapter seven. I thought I'd give our lovebirds a little peace before the ship's sinking. You know, calm before the storm type stuff! Alright today I'm gunna try something. I won't update until I have…let's say…five reviews. Heehee! It's not hard: click the review button and** **you'll get your update sooner! ) Luv ya! Oh and no flames by the way! **


	8. Important Author's Note

**A/N: Okay so I know it's been forever and a day since I updated this story but I thought I'd go ahead and let everyone who was reading know that I haven't stopped writing. My laptop crashed and for a while I was unable to retrieve my files and I never get to stay on the family's computer for long enough to write anything. I was finally able to take it to a repair place and they put all my files on a disk. It'll be about a week before the next ****chappie**** will be up just because I have to get back into the story. My writing style has been tweaked a little since I last write so I'm probably going to rewrite the chapters I already have. If any drastic changes ensue, I'll let you all know.**


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